


Lest We Forget

by koalaboy



Category: A New Brain - Finn/Lapine
Genre: M/M, ww1 au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 17:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14170233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalaboy/pseuds/koalaboy
Summary: A WW1 AU for A New Brain. Gordon and Roger are recruited to fight for the US and are torn apart and thrown in to the battlefield. They won't return home the same.





	1. Chapter 1

Gordon's hands are shaking, partially from exhaustion and sleep deprivation, and partially from adrenalin. He gasps in a few breaths to try and steady them; shaky hands were no good to him. Bullets whiz by the top of his head and past his ears as he squints down the sight of his rifle.

A few feet beyond his position sits an Austrian - young, maybe sixteen at best - in front of him, a mounted machine gun. It fires off rounds that had taken out soldiers much younger than sixteen. He tries his best to justify himself and not to empathize with the boy, who, just like him, was thrown in to a war and forced to fight.

He readjusts his grip on the trigger, his hands slippery from the rain and his own nervous sweat. He licks the dirt from his lips, the taste bitter in his mouth. 

He fires.

He feels the gun coil back in to his shoulder and dares not to look back out over the field. Gordon always hits - that was something his comrades had chanted at the training camp, but now it seemed like a curse to him. He ducks back in to the trench, pressing his back up against the cool mud as he reloads. Gordon had become deaf to the myriad of cries and explosions that polluted the space around him. His feet ached from standing for so long and his toes had started to become wrinkled and gross from standing in mud and water all the time.

He manages to look around, his eyes darting back and forth between the barrel of his gun and the other men. When he first came he had been with the boys he had trained with, friends and neighbours, but they had long since been injured or killed. Their bodies lay somewhere in between this trench and the next one. Sometimes that other trench was only a few feet back and the stench was more horrendous than usual. 

He closes his eyes and enjoys the split second of silence before another explosion. The walls of the trench shake and the wood that holds them up bows slightly, before it holds again. He steps back up on to the rung of a ladder, the extra height allowing him to assume his usual position. He squints down the sights again, this time focusing on another figure only a foot or two from where he had shot previously. He's glad their faces are covered by their helmets.

He fires.


	2. Chapter 2

Roger laughs and hands some of his stale lump of bread to the young man that sat across from him. It was best to keep the morale up. They had almost reached port somewhere near Egypt, but word was the ship of reinforcements that was meant to be at Gallipoli by now didn't make it, so they had turned around - sans training for the new recruits - and headed there instead.

Roger had been in the Navy for a few years prior to the war, mostly to impress his parents. To his surprise he had enjoyed it, there was nothing quite like sailing, and the occasional training drill or exercise hardly interrupted his life at home. Now he was Commander, a few crewmen under his wing, and with little experience sailing between them. Still, they were good men, and Roger had the patience to teach them. It was something they could take home to their momma's.

"This war will be over by Christmas, lads, I tell you that," says one of the soldiers they were going to drop off on the beach.

Roger smiles, the tiniest bit of doubt in his eyes, "Sure will. Don't know if you boys will even have your sea legs by then."

He nudges one of the crewmen with his elbow, which elicits a laugh from him.

He dusts the crumbs from his hands, marching up the steps and on to the deck above them. He was glad to smell the fresh air; the tiny personnel carrier was overcrowded with sweaty men and it was growing unpleasant to say the least.

"What do you think, sir? Should we take her in closer to the bay at speed?" He asks.

Night had fallen and it was the perfect time to slip in close enough to shore, let the soldiers off, and be gone before sunrise.

His superior nods, "Lets kiss these boys goodbye."

Roger grins, bounding back down below deck as the ship starts to move at a considerably faster pace.

"Lets go, lets--"

The most anyone can do to shield themselves is close their eyes - the Turkish strike comes fast. The ship had, unknowingly, entered their firing range. The explosion is quick and rips the small ship in half. Metal tears its way in to Roger's shoulder and upper arm. He's thrown in to the sea. The icy water jolts him back in to consciousness, but the salt seeps in to his wounds and burns. He lets out a scream for help, men from shore yell back as they wade their way out through the shallows and then swim out to the burning wreck.

Roger pays no attention to them and heaves his torn apart arm through the water in a very painful breastroke to get back to the wreck.

He's yelling names, although he can't hear what he's saying from the blast, so it's more or less just jibberish. He reaches in through fire, the fuel and gunpowder burning hot. It scalds his skin as he reaches out helplessly, pulling out one of his crewmen.

"Come on!" He cries, forcing the younger boy awake, "We have to get to shore!"

He reaches for a second, but a piece of steel frame collapses on to his fingers and rids him of his pinky and ring finger. He's lost sight of the second boy and the pain blinds him. He thinks he can see his severed fingers in the water.

If he could just save one, he thinks to himself. Just save one.

The salt burns where his fingers should be, but he's far too busy to worry about what was or wasn't attached to his limbs as he grips tight to the back of his private's uniform, tugging him along towards shore.

Then the gunfire starts.

Bullets come like lethal rain, splitting apart his private's face and splattering blood on to his own. He wails in shock, his feet finally touching sand. The men who had come out to save him and his crew floated face down in the water, but others rush out now only to add to the face-down bodies.

Roger feels bullets splash in to the water beside him, and for a moment he thinks perhaps he has some sort of invisible barrier against them. His confused, addled brain comes to a halt along with his body. He stands there, his blood staining the water around him.

Suddenly bullets tear through his body and he's burning with more pain than ever before. Men who must have replaced the second group of rescuers grip him by the arms and pull him on to the sandy shore. 

"No, no! No, there's- there's boys out there! Get the- get the boys! The young ones!" He yells, fighting weakly against their steel-like grip. They dump his body against a rocky outpost, crouching down beside him and checking over him.

"The doctor's coming, mate, it'll be alright," comes a voice. He doesn't recognize the accent.

Roger whimpers, leaning back against the ledge. He sees now, the pile of bodies growing. His crew, some limbless, some only recognisable by their uniform, among the dead. A few of the soldiers he recognized from the boat stumble ashore, only for their bodies to jerk violently and then collapse from the sheer amount of bullets tearing through them.

This is hell, he thinks to himself, I've stumbled in to hell.


	3. Chapter 3

"Here," says a stranger. He was older than Gordon by some twenty years, although the mud could have been making his wrinkles appear deeper than they were.

"What is it?" Gordon asks, taking the small bit of bread the man had offered.

"Challah," he says, his eyes gleaming.

Gordon could have broke down in front of the man right then and there. Instead he clears his throat, blinking away tears with an amazed smile. A question crosses his face.

"Schwinn. It is German-Jewish," says the man, patting Gordon on the shoulder, "I'm Braunstein. My wife sent the bread to me for the Sabbath, but I thought I would share it with you."

"Thank you," he murmurs, tearing off some of the bread with his teeth and chewing, lest an explosion cover it in mud. He swallows hard - its difficult to eat bread with little water. "My mother came to America when she was a teenager. My father was American, y'see."

Braunstein nods, "I'm assuming it didn't work out? My father was much the same."

Gordon laughs bitterly, "I appreciate the honesty."

Once they're both finished the older man takes Gordon's hands in his, giving them a squeeze. Gordon twitches nervously, ready to pull away from the overly-affectionate-relative-stranger.

" _Chaverim vachaveirot n'vareich,_ " his voice is soft and lilting, the experience with which he says the Hebrew showing his faith.

The familiar words were like home to him. Gordon swallows, his bottom lip trembling. They both flinch as an explosion rocks the trench again.

" _Y-Y'hi shem A-Adonai m'vorach mei-atah v'ad olam,_ " Gordon stammers, squeezing his eyes shut tight as gunfire rings out.

The man nods, patting Gordon's clenched hands before leaving in the kind of wisdom-filled silence that Gordon thought only the old rabbis at his synagogue possessed.


End file.
